My Christmas in '62
by Zealous Iconoclast
Summary: It was, in so many ways, the Christmas that never should have been. Sam's reminiscences spark old memories for his holographic partner.


"_White Christmas_" © 1940, Irving Berlin; "_I'll Be Home for Christmas_" © 1943, Walter Kent. First segment dialogue from "A Little Miracle", "Quantum Leap" episode 3.010

**My Christmas in '62**

Al stepped into the Imaging Chamber, exhaling a contented mouthful of fragrant smoke. An annoyed voice wafted towards him out of the past. "And turn that music off!" it ordered.

"Yes, sir," Sam murmured meekly.

"A little Christmas cheer?" Al asked with just a hint of irony. Sam was standing by the hi-fi, on top of which was set the sideboard. He was reaching for a decanter full of costly liquor.

The displaced physicist now living the live of one Reginald Pearson, valet, sighed heavily. "Not much to cheer about, Al," he said, glancing at Michael Blake. The real estate mogul and terminal grouch was seated in a cubic white armchair by the enormous tree occupying a fraction of the space in the penthouse parlor. "He's just sitting there, staring out the window," Sam said grimly. "I never should have taken him back to his old neighborhood."

Sometimes geniuses couldn't see past the ends of their own noses. "I don't understand you," Al said. "It's obvious that it's working!"

"It is?" asked Sam, his voice rife with skepticism.

"Sure! That little walk down memory lane jogged something in him; he's sitting there thinking about it. You gotta keep pushing now," Al advised.

"How?" Sam was not only clueless, but completely helpless. Al had pity on him.

"Well… you took him to the past. Now you gotta show him his present,' he offered. "Ziggy says there's a ninety-four point three percent chance that this is the right thing to do, so—"

He paused. A vacant, nostalgic look had crept over the time traveler's face, and his eyes were light years away.

"Are you okay?" Al asked, suddenly concerned.

Sam jolted himself back to reality. "Yeah," he said blissfully. "Yeah, I was just thinking about my Christmas in '62. I was nine. Dad gave me a sled, and Tom and I spent the whole day playing in the snow. It was great."

Al shifted uncomfortably. Before Sam had started leaping—pre-Swiss-cheese-effect—reminiscences about his brother had been few and far between, always tinted with a profound sadness that stemmed from Tom's death in the shallows of the Mekong. Since then, though, everything had changed. Tom Beckett was alive, and others who had survived the original history were dead. As far as everyone but the anticontamination-field-protected—if "protected" were the right word—Admiral was concerned, Sam Beckett had never lost his brother. Al had been aching to know what, if anything, his friend remembered of that leap, but for a myriad of painfully obvious reasons having nothing at all to do with the Quantum Rules, he had not dared to bring it up. For one thing, Sam had felt horrifically and irrationally guilty about the death of Maggie Dawson. For another, there was the photojournalist's prize-winning image of one POW looking back. And then there was the slip of the tongue that Al was desperately hoping his friend would never remember. After three months, he was reconciled to his new history now, but that didn't mean that he wanted Sam to know about it. If Sam never found out what saving Tom's life had cost his friend, that would suit Al just fine.

"Okay," Al said, punching his egress code into the handlink. "You hang in there, alright? And—ah—keep working on him."

He backed out of the Imaging Chamber, and Sam's image fluxed and vanished. Gooshie looked up as the Admiral stepped into the Control Room.

"H-How is Doctor Beckett?" the programmer asked.

"Fine…" Al murmured absently, setting the handlink on its charging cradle. "Just fine…"

He kept walking. A deeper unease was settling on his heart. Something that Sam had said was ringing in his ears, driving back the memories of the leap that had touched his own life in ways he was never likely to forget. Sam's words echoed over and over in Al's mind.

_My Christmas in '62. My Christmas in '62_.

Christmas, 1962. The Christmas that, in so many ways, never should have been... but was.

_MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

Ensign Al Calavicci pulled up to the curb in front of the tiny bungalow in Pensacola, Florida. The air was cool as the night settled in around him. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was just after twenty hundred hours on Christmas Eve, and the quiet residential street was aglow with colored lights. Switching off the engine, he got out of the car and stood on the pavement for a moment, drinking in the sight of his neighbors' homes, glittering in the dusk. The windows shone warm and enticing, the yellow gleam of the lamps within filtering through the drapes. Behind each curtain, a family was gathering to celebrate a holiday. Parents with little children. Newlyweds caught up in the flurry of hosting one set of in-laws or the other. Young couples using the evening as an excuse for romance and delight.

Wistfully, he turned his back to the seasonal glitter of the neighborhood, and weary feet found their way up the walk of the one darkened house on the entire street.

In the entryway, he switched on the outside lights. Now, at least from without, the bungalow looked not different from its siblings. He removed his boots, tucking them into a corner with care. A place for everything, and everything in its place—the old adage took on a whole new meaning when applied to the residence of two Naval officers. Al moved further into the house, switching on the living room light. In the corner by the picture window stood an empty tree. He paused to stare at it for a moment: the bushy pine branches, green and fragrant but bare.

He strode, sock-footed, into the little bedroom, where he stripped off his uniform and gathering up a pair of cotton pajamas and his slippers. He moved into the next room to shower and shave with military efficiency, washing away the twelve-hour workday under a hot jet of water. Clean and comfortably clad, he returned to the front room.

The house seemed quiet and eerily empty, probably because it was. Al shivered a little. He hated the feeling that he was alone. In his twenty-eight short years of life, he had spent far more time alone, lonely, than any outgoing and fundamentally loving person should. His affection-starved childhood had left wounds in his heart that were slow to heal, and the need for companionship that had driven his early romantic exploits sprung from that.

He had no need of such pursuits now. Instead, he had Beth. Beth. His angel, the love of his life. She was everything he had ever dreamed of, and so much more than he had ever believed he would find. She was his joy, his single reason for living. He accused her of being the incorrigible romantic, but when it came to Beth—his Beth! His darling Beth!—he was just as impossible. Of course, a man couldn't admit that, not even to himself.

It was permissible to confess, privately, that he missed her, though. She had been gone three weeks, on a TDY assignment in Georgia, covering for a staff nurse at the Kings Bay base. The woman had been in a car crash, and would probably be out of the circuit for a couple months more. Every night for three weeks, Al had come home to an empty house. It was a very disconcerting feeling, especially tonight

To alleviate the sense of loneliness, he switched on the radio. Bing Crosby's crooning crackled into the room. "…_ite Christmas, just like the ones I used to know…_"

Discomfort Al had not really been aware of feeling ebbed away at the sound, and he turned to the tree. He had bought it yesterday when he got off duty, but after getting it home, wrestling it into the house, set it up, cleaned up the scattered needles, and hunted down Beth's boxes of ornaments, he had been too tired to decorate it. Tonight, however, was Christmas Eve, and alone or not, he was going to have a tree.

He started with the lights. They had been purchased last year: newlyweds splurging on trappings for their first Christmas. Coiled with Naval precision and stored with care, they were easily unraveled. Al plugged in each string, just has Beth had taught him to. Singing along with the radio, he replaced the dead bulbs.

"_I'm dreaming of a white Christmas, with every Christmas card I write. May your days be merry and bright! And may all your Christmases be white!_"

Al chuckled to himself, a little wryly. Whatever disappointments this yuletide was bringing, the lack of snow wasn't one of them. The winters of his childhood had all had that in abundance, and the memories of the wet, bitter Atlantic cold, faced by an underfed orphan armed only with a threadbare coat and shabby shoes, was not a recollection full of fond nostalgia. He didn't mind a green Christmas complete with palm trees—not in the least!

Crosby launched into "_Jingle Bells_", and Al began to wrap the lights around the tree. He did so a little clumsily, having only done this once before, but the festive activity and the cheery music were taking the edge off of his melancholy mood.

His brain, however, would not let him alone for a minute. He was on duty again tomorrow at oh-eight-hundred. Had he known Beth would be out of state, he would have booked a couple days' leave to travel to Georgia and spend the holiday with her. The decision to put in for Christmas duty had been made based on the assumption that they would have their nights, at least, to celebrate together.

Of course, there had been another consideration that had come into play when holiday assignments had come up in October, and the Calaviccis had made this choice. There had been the grim certainty that this year there would be no Christmas. There had been the knowledge that there would never be another Christmas for anyone, ever again.

Al took out the box of red balls. "Apples!" Beth had exclaimed last year. "For the sin of Adam."

The sin of Adam that had almost destroyed the world.

Flying reconnaissance flights of Cuba this autumn, Al had been all too aware of the very real risk. Despite the media coverage and the widespread, ill-controlled sense of panic that had lurked below the surface of the civilian population, most people had no idea how truly, terribly close they had come to the edge of the cliff. The military Calavicci household had had no buffer at all from the horrific reality. Each night during the crisis, Al and Beth had made love as if it was, literally, their last chance: desperately, passionately and tenderly. Plans for a holiday they had never hoped to see had seemed unimportant in the light of the realization that any moment could bring the unthinkable. Nuclear war. Total annihilation. The end of the world.

Only it hadn't happened. Kennedy and Khrushchev had come to an eleventh-hour agreement. Disarmament had proceeded. The crisis was over, and the whole world had suddenly realized that they _would_ be another Christmas after all.

Al had been prone to bursts of wonder ever since, and as he opened a flat green box, he experienced one such moment. Nestled in red tissue were Beth's china angels, delicate white ornaments that Al had fallen in love with at first sight, and that he realized now he had never expected to see again. He picked one up, holding its hook so that it dangled before his eyes. It was a three-inch-long seraph, her glazed gown flowing gracefully in a gentle crescent. Each feather on the majestic wings had been sculpted with care, in her hands she bore a dainty lyre. Every angel had its own instrument: the next one he lifted up bore a cornet, and the one after her a violin. After a few minutes' work, they studded the tree like pearls.

He wished now that Beth were here. This Christmas, an unexpected gift of fate, should have been shared with her. A quirk of destiny had given the world a reprieve from Armageddon, and that should have been celebrated properly. Though he knew he deserved no better than to pass this miraculous Christmas alone, he was only human, and he could not help longing for something more.

Next there were glass icicles, and then the crocheted and starched snowflakes that Beth had inherited from her grandmother. Touching these fragile works of art, Al could feel the love that the woman who had made them must have had for Beth. His Beth.

Al closed his eyes against the shiver of loneliness that overcame him. He focused on the sounds drifting from the neighborhood. Crosby was singing another winter song, perky and upbeat. "…_and pretend that he's a circus clown! We'll have lots of fun with Mr. Snowman, until the other kiddies knock him down!_"

Al took out the tiny wooden crèche that Beth treasured so dearly, and hung it amid the heavenly hosts at the top of the tree. Then there were the fanciful ornaments: a little nutcracker with a red uniform and a workable jaw, an alphabet block, a blue plastic unicorn. There was a hobby horse with yarn for a mane, a miniature teddy bear, a gingerbread man, and a wee little china doll. There was also a pewter ornament in the shape of a baby cup, engraved to commemorate "Elizabeth's First Christmas, 1939".

Al set the glittering star on the top of the tree, and then paused. There was only one box left: the ornaments they had given one another last year.

Reverently, he opened it, drawing hers out first. It was a calla lily, cut of shimmering Austrian crystal. He had spent the better part of a week trying to hunt down the consummately perfect decoration for his beautiful bride, and this was it. He hung it with care, near the top where it glistened like a diamond amid the colored lights. Then he took out the one she had bought for him.

It was a pewter cup fashioned like the one from her babyhood, and she had had it engraved. Above his squadron emblem were the words, "Albert's First Christmas Tree, 1961".

He held it in his palm, cool and heavy, and he felt his eyes prickling with unshed tears. It was physical, tangible evidence of Beth's love. In a singularly sentimental gesture that was only allowed because there was no one to see, he pressed the ornament to his lips before hanging it next to his wife's cup.

While Crosby sang "_Hark, the Herald Angels Sing_", Al filled in the gaps with silver strands of tinsel, and fetched the bag of a dozen candy canes he had bought the day before. Then the tree was finished. Al packed away the boxes quickly and efficiently, and stood back to admire the finished product. A broad smile spread across the Naval officer's handsome young face, his solitude momentarily forgotten. The tree was glorious.

He was singing again as he moved into the kitchen and began to unearth the ingredients required for an alfredo sauce. He loved Christmas. He always had, and he knew he always would. What if he was alone this year? Two months ago, he hadn't even expected to see this Yule, and here he was! Here they all were!

Cheerfully, he poured a glass of Chianti and filled his plate with food. Then he paused, his good mood deflating yet again. Out of force of habit, he had cooked enough for two.

Crosby's voice started up again, segueing into a wartime classic. Al felt a curious emptiness washing over him as he listened to the lyrics.

"_I'll be home for Christmas: you can plan on me_."

He was home, technically, but Beth was all that made this little rental cottage home, and she wasn't here. She was off in Georgia, probably celebrating with the other nurses. He missed her. Oh, God, he missed her. Last Christmas he had had his first real taste of family, of passing the holiday with someone you loved more than life itself. With someone who loved you.

"_Please have snow, and mistletoe, and presents on the tree. Christmas Eve will find me where the love light gleams…_"

Al held his breath. Had he heard her car? That was silly, he told himself. She wasn't even in the state.

"_I'll be home for Christmas, if only in my—_"

Then he was on his feet, sprinting through the tree-lit living room. He opened the door and ran down the walk, halting halfway to the curb. He took a deep breath. It _had_ been his imagination. The silent street, glittering with Christmas lights, was devoid of any sign of his wife. All there was to disturb the silence of the night was a delusional man standing in the midst of his lawn in his pajamas.

Al retreated back inside, his stomach roiling with embarrassment. He bolted the door and switched off the radio almost wrathfully, cutting Crosby off mid-refrain. He wasn't in the mood for the tree anymore, so he bent to unplug it. Then he retreated into the kitchen and ate methodically, putting away the extra portion. He wouldn't have to cook tomorrow night, and that was all there was to it.

He washed the dishes and swept the floor, and then there was nothing more to do. But oh-eight-hundred came early, and he might as well get a good night's sleep, at least. He turned off the kitchen light and retreated to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

The bed was large and empty. He pulled the covers out of their neat tucking, rolling into them as if they were a cocoon. Still, it was a long while before he could relax enough to sleep, and even when he did, his dreams were restless.

It was a bitterly cold night in New York. There was no money, and so there was no heat. Al huddled in his little cot with the baby, two undernourished little children trying to keep each other warm in the only way they could. Trudy was sleeping, but Al was wide awake. He was a very astute child, and somehow he knew that something was about to happen. He stared, wide-eyed into the darkness, listening. At last, he heard it.

A key in the front door.

He slipped out of bed as quietly as he could, his bare toes curling against the cold of the bare tile. His heart hammered excitedly in his thin little chest. Poppa was home! Poppa was back! There _would_ be Christmas, after all!

He stood six feet from the door, waiting quietly. Poppa would be tired, and maybe cross. Al watched with anticipation as the doorknob turned, and the door opened. Poppa slipped through, silently, carefully stepping out of his shoes and setting his kit bag down in the entryway. His breath caught high in his throat as he saw the little watcher. Then he spoke.

"Al? What are you doing in the dark?"

He blinked. The cool night air nipped his bare toes and he woke up. The slender figure in her dark wool coat smiled at him in the dim light filtering through the living room window.

"I woke you up, didn't I?" she asked.

Al stared for a moment, then wet his lips and managed to gasp, "Beth?"

She switched on the light and started forward. He met her halfway. She threw herself into his arms with a little cry of delight. He spun her around and kissed her passionately, joyfully. His was the awe of a child whose Christmas wish had come true precisely when he had least expected it.

"You're here!" Al crowed, stepping back to hold her at arms length. "What are you doing here?"

"I switched a shift," Beth answered, kissing him again. "Merry Christmas, flyboy."

Al took her in his arms again. "Merry Christmas," he said wholeheartedly.

They kissed again, breathing deeply of one anther's souls. They had seen longer separations, it was true, but tonight was Christmas Eve, and they were young, and happy, and very much in love.

"How long are you home?" Al asked, removing her hat and caressing her silken hair.

"Just tonight," Beth said, with only the slightest intimation of regret. "I worked the oh-five-hundred shift today, and I switched for the seventeen-hundred tomorrow."

"You worked at oh-five-hundred, and you drove all the way from Kings Bay?" Al asked. "Why?"

"Because…" Her voice broke as she looked at him, and he saw tears in her beautiful hazel eyes. She stroked his hair, which was curling from the shower, and he read her expression perfectly. The terror of the grim October had not yet abated. He wasn't the only one who had been dwelling tonight on the world's narrow brush with eradication. "Because I didn't think we would have another Christmas," Beth whispered.

Al embraced her tightly, and she clung to him. They stood that way for a long time, content to hold each other. Beth was crying quietly, and as Al caressed her back a single tear rolled down his left cheek. He didn't try to stop it. Beth was in his arms. She was with him for Christmas, and he had everything in the world that he had ever dared to hope for.

Finally, she lifted her head off of his shoulder, and saw the tree.

"Oh, Al!" she exclaimed, stepping forward to look at it.

He scratched his forehead. "If I'd known you were coming I would have waited," he said. "You know, so you could do it right."

"No, it's beautiful!" Beth said, bending to plug it in. The varicolored lights filled the room with seasonal magic. Impulsively, Al turned off the entryway light. "It's beautiful!" she repeated, coming back to hug him happily.

"There's leftovers from supper," Al told her, almost shyly. "It's not a turkey dinner, but I could warm it up—"

"I'm not hungry for supper," she murmured seductively, tasting his lips again.

Then he was unbuttoning her coat and removing her uniform while she reached for his pajamas. In the morning, she would be on the road back to Georgia, and he would be heading to the base for a long, dull duty shift, but now they were together. It was Christmas. And they were happy…

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

The sunlight brought Al back to the present. The desert rolled around him, stretching out toward the broad blue horizon. Behind him, the glowing, pulsating mass of Mount Ziggy stood as a testament to all that he and Sam had managed to achieve. Though often plagued by black moods, the Admiral was, just now, sublimely happy. He didn't think of his failures, or all that he had lost. He thought about Project Quantum Leap, and his partner, even now making a difference in the past…

… and he thought about Christmas, 1962. Calavicci, for a brief season a resident in paradise, and his lily-white angel who had driven half the night just to be with him, and to celebrate the Christmas that never should have been.

FINIS


End file.
